Camp Damascus(64)
The shelves are covered in strange paraphernalia. A skeletal rat sits under glass next to an assortment of pinned beetles. Jars and bottles are lined up next to this, organized and filled with crafty ingredients, and a collection of black books line the shelf under that. A turtle shell and a taxidermied bat call the next row home.
Everything about this display screams occult, a subject I certainly don’t care much about these days, but it still rings some malignant Christian alarm deep within me.
Be cool.
“Pagan stuff,” I offer, mustering up the most casual and convincing nod I can. “Awesome.”
Willow stops packing, glancing over at me in confusion. “What?”
I nod at the shelf. “You’re into witchcraft.”
Willow cocks her head to the side.
“You don’t remember dating a witch?” she asks.
She holds this expression as long as she possibly can, until she finally can’t hold back any longer and erupts in a fit of laughter.
“I’m just fucking with you. I like nature,” she replies, “but I don’t believe in … well, anything.”
“Oh,” I falter. “Okay.”
“Plus, that stuff looks pretty cool,” she continues.
My eyes drift over to the poster. “What about that symbol?”
Willow raises her eyebrows.
“That?” she asks, grabbing a remote off the counter and pointing it at her nearby stereo. “That’s Wu-Tang Clan.”
Willow presses play and a beat drops, the rhythmic sound vibrating through her apartment. I’m immediately transported to that night with the headphones, recalling the way we danced together despite the fact that I had no idea what I was doing.
The song cascades across my ears, heavy and raw and beautiful. A rapper confidently brags over this staccato piano line, making his case with intoxicating bravado.
“Are your neighbors gonna get upset?” I ask.
She smiles. “I’m moving out. I don’t give a fuck!”
I begin to nod along with the music, well aware of how awkward I look but not really caring.
“If I can dance to it, then I like it,” Willow continues, getting back to work as she pulls a few books from the shelf and tosses them into her duffel.
“Then you will not like Saul’s music,” I reply.
I watch as Willow finishes up her packing, the past and present meeting at a beautiful crossroads in my mind. The last time I remember being in this room we were quiet and scared, hidden away with two sets of headphones in the dead of night.
But Willow’s not afraid to announce her presence anymore, and neither am I.
* * *
Short of another breakin, finding more information about the inner workings of Camp Damascus is nearly impossible. We briefly consider another journey into the depths of a church outreach center, hoping to stumble upon some records or blueprints, but eventually decide the element of surprise should remain in our favor. They don’t know we’re planning something, and at the moment that’s a massive asset.
It’s all or nothing. If we’re going in, then we better be taking care of that machine. Multiple trips just aren’t worth the risk.
Even sniffing around Neverton City Hall for old construction documents proves a bridge too far, Kingdom of the Pine’s tendrils creeping into every corner of this small town. We’ve been excommunicated, three young heathens who’ve swiftly gone from vital community members to a rot at the core of the apple.
Time also appears to be a finite resource, and I can feel the grip of the congregation closing in. Someone from the church stopped by Saul’s property yesterday, handing out home-printed Missing Person fliers with the face of yours truly plastered across the front.
Saul was deeply bothered by this, and when the canvasser left he spent a good three hours making sure my old car was not just tucked away, but fully dismantled. For the first time, he seemed viscerally upset about giving me a place to stay, liked he’d bitten off more than he could chew.
We all knew how terrifying Kingdom of the Pine could be, but Saul was especially worried. When I tried consoling him, his answers were short and sharp, and he declined to discuss because “you wouldn’t get it.”
I’ve been told that a lot, so it cut deep, but for whatever reason I felt like he might be right this time.
This morning Saul built a gate at the bottom of the drive.
Fortunately, despite all the roadblocks between us and a technical, physical layout of Camp Damascus, their penchant for advertising has become their undoing. Everyone living in the greater Neverton area has seen the commercials, years and years of video documentation that shows off the grounds in stunning detail. I’ve seen plenty of them myself, but I’ve never actually studied the footage long enough to link the visual fragments in my mind.
As our memories gradually return, the information within these ads might just manifest a coherent map of the place.
The problem is, Camp Damascus isn’t exactly advertising their dungeon. No matter how well we recollect the campground layout, it’s what’s likely under the dirt that matters.
With this in mind, I’ve extracted myself from the video analysis completely. While Saul and Willow download old commercials and gradually sketch a scale map, I’m trying my best to keep my brain fresh from any outside influence.